The Gravity of Love
by shakeitsalome
Summary: Neville was the man that snagged her attention, but Adrian was the man who captured her heart. Neville/OC
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: YES another new story. What can I say? I'm on a roll, I suppose. A special thank-you to the best editor, idea bouncer-offer, and all-around amazing friend Laurie for all of her help with this. :)**

 **Note: I've used recent-ish injuries from the main roster (Neville's and Sami's, mainly) but they are still in NXT. Because reasons. Enjoy.**

Chapter One

Staring up at the ceiling while the head doctor of the Performance Center and one of the trainers manipulated and examined his ankle, Adrian Neville tried his best to tamp down hope. Even though his recovery had been going well, all he could think of as his ankle was rotated and bent to and fro was the night he'd sustained the injury. He had been angry with himself in the ensuing months. And at the same time, he'd been amazed at the irony. Who would have ever guessed that he, a high-flyer, would have broken his ankle and his shin while doing a slide beneath his opponent?

He closed his eyes, the details still crystal clear after six months. Sami Zayn, approaching for the planned series of arm drag takedowns. The crowd at Full Sail University chanting 'olé'. Himself going down. At first he was sure he had just tweaked the joint, and the match had continued. Until he'd backed into a corner, unable to go for his finishing move. Sami's concern had matched the referee's, and within seconds the ending had changed. A roll-up pin. Then a blur, after which he'd found himself in the trainer's room, with Triple H and William Regal standing worriedly at his side. Finally, the dreaded words that had crushed his soul.

 _"It's definitely broken."_

In an instant, the plans that had been set for him had been scrapped. He wouldn't hold the championship until the weekend of WrestleMania. He wouldn't make his main roster debut on Raw the following Monday.

There had been little hope in the months of his recovery and rehabilitation. He refused to let it into his mind, despite being told he was progressing remarkably. No matter how much he yearned to be back inside a ring, he couldn't wish for it so soon. Just to run the ropes would be a delight, but he would be happy if the doctor said he could do some work on the mats.

The gloved hands released his ankle, one lightly patting the table to signal the doctor was done. Sitting up, Neville glanced to the ankle. The paleness after weeks in a cast was barely visible now, but he could vividly recall the itching. The burning. The pain that jarred him from sleep.

"How much longer?" he finally asked when Dr. Sampson began peeling off his gloves.

"I'm thinking a couple more weeks before you get in the rings here. We want to be sure."

Neville released his breath slowly and nodded. It was sooner than he had expected. He listened intently to Dr. Sampson's suggestions and, when finished, shook the man's hand and slid off the table.

He allowed himself a little bit of hope. For the fans to be happy to see him. If they even remembered him… There were new faces now. And more new faces would be coming soon, he was sure. Faces that would no doubt excite the crowd more than his did.

He was halfway through the training room, on his way upstairs to the locker room for a quick shower, when he saw one of the up-and-coming faces. Slowing, he turned and approached the practice ring, where Finn Bálor had Sami Zayn locked in a surfboard stretch. Neville leaned against the apron, nodding in greeting when Finn glanced over.

"I give," Sami grunted, rolling away as Finn let go. He sat up, grinning as he spied Neville. "What's the word?"

"Two weeks," Neville answered. "How's the shoulder doing?"

"Good as new." Sami rolled both his shoulders and hopped to his feet.

"Two weeks until your return?" Finn asked, sweeping his hand over his face to brush away sweat.

"Not hardly. Two weeks until I get into one of these rings." Neville lightly drummed his fingers against the canvas.

"They know what they're doing," Sami pointed out gently.

"I know." He slapped the canvas, enjoying the give of the thin layer of foam. "I just miss it."

"Neville," a voice called.

He turned, unconsciously straightening at the sight of Triple H striding towards him.

"You're in for it now," Finn warned with a chuckle.

Neville ignored him, smiling when Hunter approached. The man's handshake was firm, and he was tugged forward for a quick hug. "Hunter," he greeted.

"How's the ankle feeling now?" Hunter asked. There was concern on his face when he lightly clapped Neville on the shoulder.

"It hurts a little. They had me on the treadmill."

"Just make sure you follow the trainers' schedule and don't push yourself too hard." Looking at Finn and Sami, who were both leaning against the ropes and obviously listening to every word, he cleared his throat and nodded for Neville to step away.

"I won't," Neville assured. He'd seen what could happen to those that pushed their recovery too soon. Wondering why Hunter wanted to speak with him somewhat privately, he followed the older man. He hadn't done something wrong already, had he?

"I was talking to Steph, and—" Hunter cut off and chuckled. "Well, really, she was the one talking to me. But don't tell her I said that. Anyway, she knows you're getting back after months away and she wants to go over a few ideas with you. What with the draft coming up and everything, she's trying her best to make sure no one gets overlooked. We'd like you to come over to our place for dinner."

Surprised, Neville took a sip from his bottled water. He'd heard about the draft, of course, but hadn't expected it would affect him anytime soon. The most surprising thing, though, was the invitation. "Dinner?"

"Yes. She's down for the rest of the week to go over a few things here. The girls are with us," Hunter added with a smile. "So it's nothing fancy. Just a family dinner."

He considered his options. Family dinner with Stephanie, Hunter, and their daughters, or a lonely takeout meal in his own apartment. He began to nod before he realized he had actually made up his mind. "Sounds great."

"Great." Hunter looked perhaps a bit too elated at the acceptance. "We usually eat about seven. Drop by my office before you leave and I'll give you the address."

"Sure thing."

He made his way back to the ring, where Finn and Sami were waiting.

"What did Hunter want?" Finn asked.

"He reminded me to not push myself." Neville lifted his left foot and flexed his ankle repeatedly.

"I heard that bit. Why'd he pull you away?" Finn squatted down.

"Oh, that. He asked me to dinner." Neville furrowed his brow when his friends shared a look. "What?"

"Stephanie's on her fresh meat kick again," Sami said knowingly.

"Fresh meat?" Neville repeated.

"You'll have fun," Finn promised. "She's not the best cook, but the company is good."

"Very good," Sami added.

"He should know, he works his charm to get invited at least once a month." Finn grinned.

"Does everybody go there for dinner?" Neville asked, confused by the shared grins his friends exchanged. They obviously knew something he didn't. And neither looked as though they would share their knowledge.

"Not everybody. Just the guys Stephanie thinks—"

"Will appreciate a good home-cooked meal," Finn interrupted. Then, looking to Neville as he hopped out of the ring, he smiled. "Don't forget your manners."

"And even though they say it's just a casual family dinner, dress nice." This from Sami.

"Yeah. But not too nice. No suit."

"And pick up some flowers for Stephanie on the way." Sami rolled out of the ring.

"You don't have to get flowers," Finn insisted, making a face. "That's cliché."

"It makes a good impression. Get flowers."

"Fine, get flowers. But nothing too fancy."

"But no crap from a gas station, either."

"Should I practice my bow?" Neville asked with a roll of his eyes. They made it sound like he was going on a date.

"Well… Stephanie _is_ the queen," Sami pointed out, chuckling. "Really, man, you'll enjoy it."

"Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me?"

"Would we do that?" Finn scoffed. "To our best friend?"

Neville looked from one too-innocent face to the other. Rolling his eyes, he snorted. "Yes, you would."

"Seriously, you'll have fun. Nothing beats a home-cooked meal." Finn smiled, this time with no hint of secrecy. "And Hunter's girls are little angels."

Sami was nodding in agreement. "Perfect little angels."

Neville imagined three holy terrors. He had only met Hunter and Stephanie's daughters in passing, and had never said more than two words to either of them. Now he pictured three miniature versions of Stephanie, complete with the screeching and slapping of her onscreen persona. His friends were a little too enthusiastic for them to be anything but the hellions he envisioned.

With their insistent words that he would have a great time still ringing in his ears, he said his goodbyes and made his way upstairs to shower.

Several hours later, when he parked in the driveway of the address Hunter had given him, he was sure he had the wrong place. The house was rather modest, considering the wealth he knew Hunter and Stephanie had to possess. The neighborhood was quiet and as he climbed out of his car he could hear the laughter of children from the home next door. Three cars were in the u-shaped driveway, and he allowed himself a moment to appreciate the bright blue convertible parked at the far end. He couldn't imagine Hunter or Stephanie driving it, but he realized he knew nothing about their lives away from the company.

He'd elected against getting flowers. Approaching the front door, he wondered if he should have stopped on the way to get some. He wasn't sure what dinner with them could possibly accomplish, but he did want to make a good impression. He paused to inhale deeply and exhale slowly, then reached to ring the doorbell.

The door opened before he could do so. Hunter grinned, adjusting the young girl on his hip. "Hey, you made it. Murphy saw you pull up. C'mon in."

Neville stepped into the house, trying to remember which daughter Murphy was. Before he could open his mouth to greet Hunter, another girl skipped through the open doorway to the left and offered a shy smile.

"This is Murphy," Hunter introduced, resting his hand on the girl's head. "And this is Vaughn. Girls, this is Neville."

"Hello," he greeted them. Murphy's smile widened, showing off the gaps of two missing teeth.

"Hi," she said.

"Aurora's in the kitchen helping Steph." Hunter set Vaughn down and gave her a gentle nudge into the living room before motioning for Neville to follow. "You want a drink or anything?"

"No, I'm fine." Neville glanced around, taking in the comfortable seating and framed pictures on the mantle. There was no TV, and the coffee table was littered with crayons and coloring books. Vaughn was already kneeling in front of it, eyeing him warily as he moved to sit on the couch. Murphy murmured something to her father then darted out of the room. "Nice place."

"We like it," Hunter agreed with a nod, settling on the other end of the l-shaped couch. "Once NXT started taking off and I began spending so much time down here, we decided I needed something more than a hotel room. Steph likes having room for her and the girls when they get down here, too."

"I can understand—"

"Vaughn, Mom said to help set the table!" a voice called. Neville wasn't sure if it was Murphy or the other one. Aurora was her name, wasn't it?

Vaughn looked up from her coloring and scowled. Throwing down her crayon, she scrambled to her feet and ran from the room, shouting, "Daddy said no yelling in the house!"

Neville bit back a laugh when Hunter groaned. "You and Stephanie have three girls?"

"Yeah, but some days it feels like three hundred. What about you?"

"Uh, no, no children." He cleared his throat. "I don't have—"

He was saved from having to explain by the sound of approaching footsteps. Grateful when Hunter looked towards the door, he rubbed his palms over his thighs. Turning slightly, he saw what he first thought was Hunter's eldest daughter entering the room. He smiled politely, then quickly rose to his feet when he realized that she wasn't Hunter's daughter.

She was short. Petite, really. Slender, with slight curves. The long, loose, sleeveless dress did little to conceal her toned physique. Neville allowed himself another, longer look, taking in the twinkle of silver at her neck and ears. Her dark auburn hair was styled in a short bob, and a pair of light green eyes were observing him warily. A hand lifted to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she looked to Hunter with an expression of disbelief.

Only when he saw her profile did he recognize her.

"Angela," Hunter said. "This is Adrian Neville. Neville, this is Angela Grant."

* * *

Angela Grant didn't bother to hide her consternation as she was introduced to the young man in Hunter and Stephanie's living room. Shooting Hunter a glare when she saw him smile, she turned to Neville and pulled her lips into a semblance of a smile. "Mr. Neville," she greeted, rounding the couch and extending her hand politely. Just as her mother had taught her, she kept her back straight and her shoulders back and shook his hand, though she perhaps pulled back sooner than her mother would have liked. "It's nice to meet you."

"Neville's joining us for dinner," Hunter pointed out.

Of course he was. "I'll just go see if Steph needs any help. Excuse me—"

"She's got the girls, you can stay and chat." Hunter's tone was exactly the one he used with his daughters when they had stepped out of line.

Angela almost scoffed, but caught herself in time. "If you're sure," she murmured, stooping to pick up a crayon that had rolled to the floor. She looked from Hunter to Neville then back again before settling in the armchair.

"Have you met each other before?" Hunter asked.

Angela shook her head, but Neville had already begun to speak.

"I don't believe so. I know of you," he said, looking to Angela, "but our paths never crossed."

Crossing her legs, she clasped her hands in her lap. It was the only thing she could think to do to keep from rubbing her left knee. She vaguely recalled seeing him a time or two at the Performance Center. Before her brief stint on NXT. Before the injury that had ended her career. "No, they didn't."

"Neville's coming back from an ankle injury. I'm sure I told you about it."

He probably had. But he'd told her of so many injuries over the years. She would have to have the memory capacity of the fastest computer in the world to be able to remember them all. "Broken ankle, right?" she guessed.

"And a fractured shin," Neville confirmed.

Her knee practically throbbed in sympathy. "Did you need surgery?"

"No, thankfully. It was two clean breaks."

She struggled to recall what she knew of his work. Very little, she realized. Though she could remember that he was a high flyer. "How did it happen?"

"A baseball slide. In a match with Sami Zayn," he added.

Strange, she thought, how it had been a relatively simple move that caused the injury, and not one of the risky maneuvers from the top rope. "But you'll be returning soon. Won't you?"

"Sampson said I'll be able to get back in the training ring in two weeks." He smiled. "I'm looking forward to it. I've been like a fish out of water."

So had she. But, unlike him, she wasn't anxious to get back into the water. "I'm—"

"FOOD'S READY!" a girl's voice shrieked.

"Murphy!" Hunter called.

"It was Vaughn," Angela pointed out.

"Vaughn!" he corrected. But it was too late. The two sisters were giggling from the dining room, and even Stephanie's laugh could be heard. Groaning, he got to his feet and motioned for Neville and Angela to go ahead of him.

"Neville, it's so good to see you," Stephanie enthused from the kitchen doorway as they stepped into the dining room. Setting the salad bowl on the table, she moved to greet him, smiling warmly as though he were an old friend.

Angela rolled her eyes. She had seen this play before. The first two acts were always the same. An unwitting man was invited to dinner. He had to meet several criteria before the invitation was issued. Politeness was key, as was the lack of major scandals, and he had to be single. Age didn't appear to be a factor, but maturity and a sense of responsibility were required. At dinner, he would be introduced to the single woman. Over the meal, questions would be asked by Hunter and Stephanie as a way for the man and the single woman to get to know each other. End of the first act came with the end of the evening. The second act featured Stephanie, the single woman, and Hunter, where the settled married couple told the single woman all the wonderful qualities the unwitting man possessed. It usually ended with promises that would never be kept. The third act was supposed to be the single woman and the unwitting man falling in love and living happily ever after, but Angela had yet to see that happen.

She would know. She was always the 'single woman' in the play.

She knew they meant well. As her guardian and practically her second father, Hunter had only her best interests in mind. He wanted to see her settle down. He wanted quasi-grandchildren to bounce on his knee. He wanted her to be as happy as he and Stephanie were. Stephanie wanted the same. And the two had chosen good candidates. Angela had made great friends over the past year and a half. She had even gone out on a date with a few of them, where she and the men always realized they were better off as friends. And where they both always found out they were too focused on their careers to work at a relationship.

She wasn't lonely, she reflected as she took her seat between Vaughn and Murphy. She lived what she liked to think was a full life, bum knee notwithstanding. For the past year she had worked overtime to achieve her degree, fitting rehabilitation and social activities where her schedule allowed. She was about to start another career within the company. She had friends, in and out of the company, and was as active as she could be. Her life was full. Just two months ago she and her roommate, who also happened to be one of her best friends, had redecorated the condo they shared. They were even thinking of adopting a dog from the local shelter.

Looking across the table to Neville, she didn't try to be inconspicuous as she took stock of him. He was shorter than a lot of the men she knew, but still many inches taller than her own five feet. His dark hair was slicked back into a ponytail. The light from the fixture above the table reflected on the lenses of his glasses as he turned to speak to Hunter. His beard was neat, but possibly in need of a little trim. His aquiline nose was distinct, and she was reminded of ancient Roman coins she had seen during one of her history courses.

The chest, shoulders and arms visible above the table were thickly muscled, and she knew from seeing him in the living room that the rest of his body was in proportion. A testament to rigorous training in the gym, she was sure. Poking at her salad, she thought of how her own figure had suffered during her recovery and rehabilitation. And, thinking of the dessert that waited in the refrigerator, the one always pulled out for special dinner guests, she sighed and forced herself to eat all of her salad.

"How is your family doing?" Stephanie asked while Aurora gathered the salad plates. Angela rose to help the girl, only to sink back into her seat when Stephanie shot her a look. The brief flare of irritation was gone as soon as she turned her attention back to Neville though.

"They're all well, thank you. I got to go home for a nice visit two months ago." Neville handed his plate to Aurora with a smile.

"Neville is from England," Stephanie told Angela.

"Really?" Angela chirped. "How fascinating."

Another warning look, this one from Hunter. He looked to Neville and smiled. "It's always good to spend time with family. Especially if you don't get to see them often."

"Sadly, I'll never know what that's like," Angela mused. Seeing Neville's confused expression, she smiled. "Hunter is my father's cousin."

"Mom?" Aurora called from the kitchen.

"I've got it," Angela promised, already out of her chair. Darting into the kitchen, she waited until she was well into the room before releasing a weary groan. Her favorite dessert wasn't worth this, was it? she wondered as conversation in the dining room resumed.

"He's nice," Aurora said softly.

"They're always nice," Angela reminded the girl. Looking around, she saw the pot roast waiting on a serving platter. Aurora was filling a bread basket with rolls warm from the oven. Hearing approaching footsteps, she glanced up to see Stephanie entering the kitchen. "I've got the veggies," she announced, grabbing the serving bowls. She didn't want to be dragged into a conversation, so she quickly exited the kitchen, plunking the bowls down in the center of the table before taking her seat. "Steph's bringing the meat."

"Hunter mentioned your father is in the military," Neville ventured once Stephanie had returned to the dining room and everyone's plates had been filled. "What branch is he in?"

"The Navy." Unconsciously, she reached to rub just beneath her left collarbone, picturing the tiny tattoo of a seal in a bubble. "He's a S.E.A.L."

"And your mother?"

Stabbing a piece of pot roast with her fork, Angela sensed Hunter and Stephanie looking at her. "She's dead."

That silenced him, she noted with relief. Continuing to eat, she was grateful when Stephanie picked up the conversation and turned it in the direction of the company. She was occasionally aware of both Stephanie and Hunter looking to her, obviously hoping she would input something, but she couldn't bring herself to do so. Not until a foot lightly connected with her shin. She glanced to Stephanie but the woman's face was a picture of pure innocence.

"I'm sorry to say that I'm not familiar with your work, Mr. Neville." There was an iciness to her tone as she spoke. From her left, Hunter coughed into his napkin. She ignored him and looked to the man sitting across from her. The man that, like so many others before him, probably had no inkling of the true reason he'd been invited to dinner. "What have you accomplished in the company?"

Neville wiped his mouth on his napkin. If he was insulted by her question he gave no indication. "I won the tag team championship twice. With different partners each time. I was also the longest reigning NXT champion."

"I see." Smiling, Angela pierced a limp green bean with her fork. "Did you work in other promotions before coming to the company?"

"I've been wrestling for over fourteen years. I was in PWG, Dragon Gate, and New Japan to name a few." He rested his hand on the table, fingers lightly tapping the wooden surface. "I've worked extremely hard for every accomplishment I've had, however small. I never had anything handed to me like some people."

This time it was Stephanie who coughed.

Her fork fell to her plate with a sharp clang. "I suppose it's really no secret that the only reason I was given a chance was because Hunter is practically my second father. But that doesn't mean I didn't work hard from the moment I signed on the dotted line."

"And what have you accomplished in the company, Miss Grant?"

Her brief career flashed in her mind. It had been so brief that she was able to let it replay twice before the silence grew strained. "Nothing," she answered. "I guess my lack of experience before a cushy contract was handed to me came back to bite me in the rear. Or maybe I didn't work hard enough."

Hunter cleared his throat. "Angela—"

"I have to go," she blurted. Pushing back her chair, she said a quick goodbye to the girls before leaving the room. She stopped only to grab her purse from its usual spot at the foot of the stairs. Not sure how the man had so expertly managed to poke at her rawest wound, she hurried outside and to her car.

She had gotten several miles away before her cell phone began to ring. Ignoring it, she followed the streets to her building and waited until she had parked before snatching the phone from her purse. It began to ring again as soon as she looked to the screen. She knew it would only continue to ring until she answered it. The caller was tenacious that way. Sighing, she accepted the call and closed her eyes. "Hi, Steph."

"You left before dessert," Stephanie accused without bothering to return the greeting.

"I lost my appetite." It wasn't a lie. Not exactly. "I'll swing by in the morning before you and the girls leave and get some."

"Angela…"

Recognizing the tone, she groaned and turned off the ignition. "Do you know what the guys call your dinners?"

"If it's not something nice, I don't want to hear it."

"Fresh meat. Everyone knows why you invite guys over for dinner, and it's not to show off your cooking skills." She drummed her fingers against the steering wheel.

"Is it wrong for me to want to see you happy?"

"No, it's not," Angela promised. "But I don't need you to play matchmaker for me. I'm perfectly capable of finding a man on my own."

Stephanie coughed. A nonverbal reminder that she hadn't found a man on her own yet.

"Ugh. I'll see you in the morning."

"But he—"

"Is a rude, condescending hobbit, and I'm not going out of my way to speak to him again. Just don't let him eat my dessert."

After ending the call she climbed out of the car and approached the building. It was quiet, as it always was this time of day, when the families and couples that lived in the community were eating their dinner. She let herself into the condo, instantly knowing her roommate was home when she spied the takeout bag on the counter in the kitchen. Stepping out of her sandals, she dropped her purse on the couch and made her way to the open door of her roommate's bedroom.

"How'd it go?"

Leaning against the doorframe, Angela groaned. "I'd rather not talk about it."

The figure lounging on the bed chuckled. "C'mon, tell me."

"No. I'll just get mad again." She pushed away from the door and crossed the room, flopping onto the bed next to her friend. Breathing in the mingled aromas of laundry detergent, fabric softener, and soap, she scooted closer. Within seconds a pair of strong arms were tucked around her, and she gratefully buried her face in his warm chest and sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks everyone for the love! (Also I adore that the roommate is such a huge question. Don't worry, the answer to that will be revealed in the next chapter...) :)**

Chapter Two

"So how's the new place?" Neville glanced up from tying his sneakers and caught Sami's grin. "You've lived there how long now?"

"It'll be six months soon. It's pretty cool." Sami sat on the bench and leaned his head from side to side. "We're thinking of getting a dog. My roommate's job doesn't require traveling like mine does, so someone will be home every day to take care of it."

"I thought you weren't a dog person."

"Yeah, well…" Sami shrugged. "As long as we get something small, y'know?"

Neville nodded. He couldn't remember who Sami's roommate was. They'd never met. Sami always came over to his apartment, or they met up at Finn's or Kevin's. All he knew was that the guy wasn't in the business. That had been a surprise, because they all stuck close together. He himself had shared a place with two other men before finally saving enough to have an apartment of his own. But Sami had lucked out, and was now able to afford staying in a higher-class building across town. "What's his name again? I don't think I've—"

"Alright, fellas, listen up!"

The deep voice of Matt Bloom echoed in the locker room, instantly silencing all of the chatter. Once he was sure he had everyone's attention, he glanced at the clipboard in his hand.

"New rehab and trainer system goes into effect today. You'll still have the same classes and the same schedule, but as of now you'll each have your own medical trainer. I know you've all heard about it…"

Neville listened as Matt explained the new system. He had heard a few rumblings about it the day before, but none of it had made sense. He found he liked the idea of having one person working one-on-one with him while he got himself back into shape for the ring. Especially when Matt assured that Dr. Sampson would be overseeing everything and would step in if needed. He threw his voice into the chorus of understanding after Matt told them to get their trainer assignments downstairs. Once he'd left, the chatter picked up again and Neville leaned to put his glasses inside his locker.

"You haven't said a word about last night's dinner," Sami pointed out. "How was it?"

"Dinner?" Finn looked up from his phone. "How was it?"

"It was fine," Neville answered. "Stephanie is a good cook."

Finn snorted and tossed his phone into his bag. "And the girls?"

"A bit boisterous." Smiling as he recalled the exuberant game of Monopoly that he'd been dragged into with Murphy and Aurora, he removed his watch. "But they're good girls."

"And?" Sami pressed after a few seconds.

"And… Hunter and Stephanie were nice. Welcoming."

"And what about the other dinner guest?" Finn asked.

Neville opened his mouth to lie, only to glance over when Tyler Breeze laughed.

"Fresh meat," Tyler announced with a grin. "So you're the new chosen one?"

"What?" Confused, Neville looked to Finn, then to Sami. Both his friends studiously looked away, pretending to be busy with adjusting their shoelaces.

"Stephanie's been going at it for almost a year now." Tyler grinned. "It's been at least a couple months since she's had someone new over for dinner. Wait… You didn't know?"

"Did you, when you went?" This from Kevin Owens.

"Of course I did. Ambrose warned me."

"Nobody warned me," Finn muttered.

"Or me," Enzo Amore added with a chuckle.

"Warned about what?" Neville was lost.

"Stephanie has it in her head that Angela needs to settle down. I guess she was a little wild when she was a teenager. Anyway, Stephanie learns what she can about everyone, and she invites guys randomly to dinner at _casa_ Helmsley." Enzo finished tying his dyed hair back and shot Neville a quick grin. "A home-cooked meal, a relaxed evening with the bosses and their kids, the whole she-bang. But Angela's always invited too. Because Stephanie and Hunter want her to find love."

"Her dad is Hunter's cousin," Sami informed.

Neville nodded. "I know. He's in the Navy. But—"

"When her mom died, Hunter was appointed her guardian. Just in case, with her dad being in the military and everything. So he's practically her second father."

She had said as much the night before. But it didn't explain the series of dinner invitations that had apparently been given to the entire NXT roster. Did Hunter and Stephanie just keep inviting man after man?

"It's stupid if you ask me," Tyler announced. "She's barely out of college, right? She just wants to have fun, not get saddled with a husband and kids."

"Oh, she definitely has fun." Enzo grinned.

"That she does," Apollo Crews put in.

"And we've loved helping her have fun, haven't we?" Zack Ryder whooped.

Neville inwardly flinched at the laughter that followed. He'd heard worse, naturally. Any locker room filled with men was bound to have the conversation turn to women. Over the years he had heard more from coworkers about sexual positions, breast sizes, blowjobs, pubic hair variations, and at least a dozen other topics, than he had learned about anything in all his school years. But he hadn't expected to hear such talk about the bosses'…cousin? Unofficial daughter? Giving his head a shake, he looked to Finn, who was joining in the laughter and smirks in a way that made it apparent he had helped Angela have fun as well. When and how had she become so popular with the NXT roster? Were Hunter and Stephanie sneakily pimping her out to the talent?

"Does she know?" he asked. "That they want her to find love and all, I mean."

Sami laughed. "Oh, she definitely knows. And she hates it."

"I noticed."

"That bad, huh?" Finn clapped him on the shoulder, his expression one of understanding.

Aware the others were listening, Neville shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I'm not likely to be invited again."

"Dude, even Enzo was invited again," Sami breathed. "What did you do?"

"Nothing," he answered defensively. "Good luck to whoever they marry her off to is all I can say."

He sensed Finn and Sami sharing a look and rolled his eyes. Pushing off the bench, he left the locker room. He wouldn't be attending any of the classes that day, but he did want to meet with his new trainer before getting in a workout. His only hope was that it was someone who wouldn't try to hold back his return. Someone who would encourage and understand.

Downstairs, he was greeted warmly by William Regal, and they discussed his injury and recovery while heading in the direction of the rehab room. Regal assured him that his trainer was top-notch, then moved off with an enigmatic smile. Neville wondered what that was about, and why Matt grinned when he entered the room.

Then he saw her.

"Ah, fuck," he muttered, managing to quickly mask the words with a cough.

Angela Grant was seated on one of the tables. Next to Matt, she appeared smaller than she had the evening before. In fact, dressed in the usual Performance Center staff garb of black pants and an NXT polo shirt, she almost looked like a child brought to work.

"Miss Grant," he greeted when her eyes landed on him.

"Mr. Neville."

"Good, you two know each other." Matt's grin widened.

"We met last night," Angela told him, her cool green eyes still on Neville.

"Briefly," he added.

"Well, now you'll get to know one another a little better. Neville, meet your new trainer."

Her? Neville looked to Matt in astonishment. " _Her_?"

"Yep. Angela's the newest member of our rehabilitation team. She recently received her degree in sports medicine and rehabilitation, and she's earned a degree in nutrition." Matt's grin had disappeared, and there was a hint of pride in his voice when he lightly patted Angela's shoulder. "She was already familiar with the staff here, and completed her training with Sampson while working towards her degrees."

Looks and brains, he thought, managing a nod. A double-edged sword. And, if his brief time on the network the night before had told him anything, she had a natural talent in the ring. Which made her a triple threat, and made him regret his words the night before. Why had she stopped performing? He had only been able to find that she had suffered a knee injury, and then nothing aside from tidbits on the gossip sites. He had found her Twitter and Instagram, but there was nothing on them about her decision to not get back into the ring. Perhaps her injury had been more serious than anyone had known.

"Don't worry," Matt told him, patting him on the shoulder as he passed by to leave the room. "You're in good hands."

Angela had slipped off the table and jerked her head. "Let's get started."

"Miss Grant—"

"I've already gone over your file. I just want to check your ankle before I put you on the treadmill."

The treadmill. He almost groaned. He would much rather go for a run on the open road. Thinking of the dull, monotonous forty-five minutes he'd spent on the machine the day before, he steeled his features and moved to sit on the table. The room was silent except for her moving around, washing her hands and getting a pair of gloves, and he impatiently bounced his knee. While she donned the gloves, he cleared his throat and blurted, "I didn't know you had become a trainer here."

"Not many people do."

"Why was it a secret?" he asked, swinging his feet up onto the table and reaching to remove his shoe and sock.

"It wasn't, really. I realized a few days into my training here that no one noticed me anymore."

He found that hard to believe. "How could they not notice you?"

"Different hair, not in workout gear… Have you been wearing your compression socks?"

"Every night," he answered, watching her bobbed hair fall forward as she ducked her head. She had cut it, he realized, thinking of the longer hair she'd sported in her matches. "And the tape when I work out. Were you doing your schooling while working in NXT?"

"Yes. We'll keep the tape and socks up for the time being." One hand began to slowly manipulate his ankle. "How was it last night?"

"A little sore," he admitted. "And it was stiff this morning when I woke up. The stretches Sampson told me to do loosened it up, though."

"Hmm."

Her touch was so light that had he not been watching he wouldn't have known she was touching him. Used to the businesslike gruffness of Sampson and the other, older trainers, he found that the silence that usually calmed him was disturbing. "Was it difficult?" he ventured after a moment, hissing when her thumb pressed deeply into the side of his ankle.

"Was what difficult?"

"Keeping up with your school while training here and performing in NXT," he elaborated.

"Not really." She straightened and removed the gloves with a snap. "I'll tape you up, then it's a half hour on the treadmill."

Feeling as though he'd been dismissed by her, and not sure why, he merely nodded. Again her touch was light and gentle, fingers moving rapidly. He was surprised when she lightly patted his leg and told him she was done. He put his sock and shoe back on then followed her into the gym area.

"You're favoring the left foot," she told him ten seconds into the brisk pace she had set.

He mentally cursed, focusing on letting his left heel take all of his weight. Each time his foot came down he feared pain, recalling the first time he had put weight on his ankle after the injury. "Habit," he said.

"Going by your x-rays, the bones are fully healed now, so you can break that habit."

"Yes ma'am."

Her nose wrinkled slightly, and for some reason it reminded him so much of Stephanie that he smiled. She watched him for several moments before making a notation on her iPad. "When was the last time you did a set of leg presses?"

He had to think for a moment. Feeling perspiration start to bead on his forehead, he thought longingly of the bottled water he'd left upstairs. "Last week." Adding the weight he had used, he saw her nod. "Will I be doing that today?"

"A couple sets. Your muscle hasn't gone down, so we don't have to work on getting it back on par with your right leg. We just want to get it back into fighting shape, so to speak. How do you feel about the stair climber?"

Neville glanced at the machine and didn't bother hiding his disgust. "I'd rather go up real stairs, to be honest."

"How do you feel about the treadmill?" she inquired with what he thought may have been a smile.

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"I think it would make a very nice coat rack for little people."

That actually earned him a small laugh. "Would you rather go outside for a run?"

"I would, but I understand—"

"Then come on, let's go."

He had the mental fortitude to plant his feet on either side of the spinning conveyor. "What?"

"Let's go. I didn't get my run in this morning, and you hate treadmills, and being out in the open will give me a better chance to see how your ankle performs." She tapped rapidly on the screen of her iPad, then punched the stop button on the treadmill. "Grab some water, and I'll meet you out front in five minutes."

"Really?"

"No, I'm joking," she deadpanned with a roll of her eyes. "Yes, really."

When he met her out front, she had changed into a pair of leggings and a tank top and was holding her left foot to her backside. Having already warmed up on the treadmill, he lightly jogged in place while she stretched her legs. Her toned physique was a silent testament to countless hours in a gym. He didn't mean to stare, but when she leaned to adjust her shoelaces, he caught a glimpse of color at the apex of her spine. Recalling the brief hints of the tattoo on her upper back during the matches he'd watched, he couldn't help but wonder what the full piece was. She straightened, stretched her arms above her head, and he thought he saw tips of wings on each of her shoulders.

"What's your tattoo of?" he asked suddenly.

She glanced back at him, blinking in surprise. "Which one?"

"Er… The one on your back." How many did she have?

"It's angel wings. And up here," she added, reaching to touch where he'd seen a flash of color, "is a pink rose. For my mom."

He almost asked if he could see it, but bit his tongue. "And your others?"

She turned to face him, one hand moving to tug the neckline of her tank top over. "There's this," she explained.

"A seal in a bubble?" he questioned, confused as he stared at the small tattoo just above her collarbone.

"For my father. And my brother."

"Ah. They're both S.E.A.L.s?"

"Yes." She smoothed her tank top back into place, then extended her right arm so he could see the Roman numerals on her inner wrist. "My birth year… And I have another one for my mom…" With a sigh, she hiked up the hem of her top, showing a spray of dandelion seeds that seemed to float up her side. "They meet up with a dandelion right here," she explained, touching a spot just beneath her left breast. "With an infinity symbol and a quote."

"What quote?" he inquired as she lowered her shirt. It was either that or ask if he could see the dandelion and its infinity symbol.

"'She lived and laughed and loved and left.'" She pursed her lips and looked at something behind him, then flicked her gaze to him. "And what about you?"

"Me? Oh, no, no tattoos," he answered with a chuckle. "I have an aversion to needles."

"A lot of people do. My—" she cut off with a shake of her head. "Come on, let's get moving."

"How far are we going?" he asked her once they'd jogged across the parking lot.

"I know a loop that's just over five miles. You game?"

Without waiting for an answer, she moved down the sidewalk, increasing her speed. Neville watched her for a few seconds before heading after her. He caught up with her, the narrowness of the sidewalk forcing him to stay behind her, and watched the way her short hair bounced with each step. Letting his gaze travel lower, he tried to visualize the tattoo she had described on her back. When her mother died? He had wanted to ask the night before, but her iciness had kept him from doing so.

He supposed he had been a bit condescending towards her. It had been a way of defending himself against her own arrogance. The way she had so casually admitted she knew nothing of his career had hurt. Not that he considered himself famous. He knew he would never be a household name like Cena or The Rock. Considering how close she was to Hunter and Stephanie, though, he would have thought she would at least be familiar with his history. In the company, if nothing else. However, he had to have stung her pride when he'd gone off about not being handed things.

"Miss Grant," he began, grateful when the sidewalk widened and he was able to move next to her.

"Is your ankle feeling okay?"

"Yes, it's fine. I just—"

"Let's pick up the speed a little. In two blocks we turn left," she instructed before sprinting off.

With a muttered curse, he followed. The early summer morning was already sweltering. He could feel sweat collecting on his back, and more than a few drops of it rolled down his neck as he met her pace. He would have to take off his shirt before long, or he'd melt. Staying behind her, he watched the back of her tank top begin to darken with sweat.

It started at the center of her back, a misshapen diamond of darker blue, and spread lower. His gaze naturally lowered to follow it, until he found he was watching her backside. It bounced each time one of her feet met the pavement, grew taut as her other foot surged forward, and relaxed just in time to bounce again. Slightly entranced, he followed her down the blocks and around the park with no further attempt at conversation.

They had just passed an older woman sitting on a bench when Angela moved to the side of the pavement.

"How's the ankle?" she asked once he'd gotten beside her.

Despite the sweat and the heat and the relentless pace, she wasn't breathless. Neville took a moment to calculate every nuance of his ankle as he ran, finally nodding. It was a little achy, but nowhere near as bad as the first time he'd gone for a run after the cast had been removed. He told her so, making sure to include the bit about the ache, and glanced to her in time to see her nod.

"When we get back, I want you to do your usual upper body workout, then we'll get some stretches in before putting you on the leg press."

He nodded, grateful she wasn't going to throw him on the machine immediately after the run. "Do you run every day?"

"I try to get seven miles a day, but sometimes I can only do five." She pursed her lips. "I wasn't able to run for a long time."

"How bad was your injury?"

* * *

Angela considered his question, almost pointing out that her injury had been beyond damaging, considering she wasn't on the road to returning to the ring. Or something similarly curt. She didn't want to get into a conversation about her recovery and rehabilitation. Nor did she want further questions about her decisions. Focusing on keeping her breathing as even as possible, she ignored the faint twinge in her knee and kept her gaze straight ahead.

"I had to have two surgeries, and one stem-cell treatment, to repair the damaged tissue and cartilage inside."

"I've heard of that. Did they harvest the stem-cells from your hip?"

"They did. How did you know?"

"Hideo had that after his shoulder surgery. He was telling me about it."

"Oh." Able to recall the steady, metallic _tap, tap, tap_ as the surgeon bored into her hip to collect the stem-cells, she felt a lump form in her throat and quickly swallowed it down. "I suppose you could say the injury was pretty bad…"

"How did it happen?" When she glanced at him, she saw his face was flushed. And not from the exertion of their run, she realized when he quickly looked away. "Was it at a taping?"

"A live show." Even though there had been no video of it, she could see herself in third-person. Poised on the top turnbuckle, ready to do the move she had practiced and rehearsed countless times in the aerial training ring and down at the gymnastics center. The move she had thought she had perfected. The move she had performed on her opponent that night several dozen times before, until they were both comfortable with it. She could see herself launch off, spin, and land. Except instead of landing as she was supposed to, she had landed fully on her left knee, twisting at the last second. She could still feel the sensation of ligaments tearing and bones grinding together. Could still feel the shock in her system, the feeling that it would all be okay. Hating that her throat started to close up with emotion, she coughed. "I fucked up."

"I doubt—"

"I fucked up, Mr. Neville. I was being ballsy when I shouldn't have been." She didn't want to talk about it anymore. She refused to. She could already sense his pity, and she'd had more than enough sympathy over the past several months.

"We all fuck up, Miss Grant," he said after a moment. Angela glanced over at him in surprise, surprised to see his hair had started to loosen from the neat man bun – god, how she hated that term – at the back of his head. A lone curl had worked free and was bobbing against his shoulder. His bare shoulder, she realized, briefly staring at his thickly muscled bicep before turning her attention to their direction. When the hell had he taken off his shirt?

"Yes, we do, but there are different levels of fucking up," she pointed out.

"I suppose there are. But there are also different ways of looking at it." His pace slowed as they neared the next intersection, but he easily followed her lead when she turned down the side street. "I've had my share of fuck ups that I thought would end my career. No matter how careful you are, or how many times you work on a move or a spot, there's always a chance something will go wrong. You just have to pick yourself up and move on."

"True," she conceded. "But there are times when you can't pick yourself up and move on. There are times when you have to stay down."

"If you fall down seven times, you get up eight."

She pondered the wisdom of his words for a moment, then shook her head. He knew nothing of her situation. "Sometimes, you don't."

"I know it's hard, getting through an injury. Even though this time around mine wasn't very severe, there were days I didn't want to try getting back, but—"

"The difference is that after your injuries you can still get back in the ring. Within a month or two you'll be back having matches. I won't. The only way I can get back into a ring now is when I'm helping someone that's injured. I'll never feel that adrenaline rush when my music hits, or the euphoria of my match being well-received by the crowd."

He was quiet for so long she grew certain that he was going to let the subject drop. Slowing her pace, because they had started the last mile leading back to the Performance Center, she dropped her gaze to the ground and watched his feet land on the pavement.

"You miss it," he said after a moment.

She jerked her head up, found he was looking at her. His light eyes were filled with understanding.

"I didn't know," he began, then shook his head. "I knew of you before we met yesterday. But I didn't know about your injury. That it was so bad, I mean. I'd heard you were out, but to be honest…"

"You don't pay attention to the women," she finished, looking ahead again.

"Right. I don't mean any offense, because I know the women are talented, I just…" He paused, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "I've taken the roundabout way of getting to it, but I wanted to apologize for what I said. The bit about being handed things and having to work hard. I didn't mean to insult you."

"You didn't." God, the last mile was taking forever. Her knee was starting to ache, and she wished she had taken the time to put on the brace. "Trust me, I've heard worse. But hey, apology accepted."

They turned at the corner, and she was relieved to find they were within the last two blocks of the Performance Center. Anxious to get there, to get a quick shower and put some ice on her knee, she shifted her thoughts to what she had to do for Neville. Dr. Sampson had already put together a comprehensive plan together. Strength training. Cardio. Stretches aimed at improving his flexibility. Just that morning they had worked out a nutrition plan for him as well. She had been told that Hunter had very big plans in store for the Englishman. Of course, when she'd asked Hunter, he'd tapped the tip of her nose and told her it was none of her business.

Blinking, she realized Neville had loped ahead of her. His longer legs made for easier strides, and she was momentarily struck by the glistening muscles of his back. It was blatantly obvious that he had kept his upper body in top shape while recovering from his injury. He had superb mass and tone, and she allowed herself a few brief seconds to admire his backside. His shirt was hanging from the low waistband of his shorts, bouncing against his hip.

Too bad he was, for all intents and purposes, her patient. He had a body that women no doubt drooled over.

As they neared the Performance Center, her right shoe slipped, the toe catching in the few centimeters of uneven pavement. Before she could balance, she felt her body start to pitch forward. She blindly threw her hands out to grab something – anything – to break her fall, fingers grabbing at frim, bare flesh. She saw a flash of the pavement coming to meet her, then suddenly Neville was directly in front of her.

She landed atop him, wincing as her knee met the pavement. Eyes closed, she waited for the pain and when it didn't come immediately she slowly opened her eyes, releasing her pent-up breath. Her face was pressed to the center of his chest. She could feel the pound of his heart, could hear his heavy breathing. She knew she should apologize for dragging him down with her, and for possibly hurting him as well, but all she could think of was the pain radiating from her knee.

"Shit," she gasped, clenching her eyes shut for several seconds. A pair of strong arms came around her, and she was surprised by the comfort they offered. One hand moved up to cup her shoulder, then swept her hair from her face. Briefly, she allowed herself to enjoy the tenderness.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly.

Jerking upright, she saw the concern etched on his face. His brow was furrowed. His hand fell from her hair, and before it could reach to support her knee she pushed off him. Ignoring the pain that flared as she rose to her feet, she shook her head. He was practically oozing sympathy. Pity. "It's fine," she insisted. Why was he so concerned? She was supposed to be the one worrying about him. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to—"

"I'm fine," he assured, already on his feet. He brushed his hands over his shorts, eyes moving to her knee. "Are you sure—"

"I'm fine," she repeated. It hurt like hell. She'd probably damaged it. She could already hear Dr. Sampson admonishing her for not wearing her brace. Her first day on the job, and she'd probably screwed things up for herself. Again. She put a little weight on her left leg, gritting her teeth through the flare of pain, hoping against hope that it was just a bad bruise.

"Let me help you," Neville said gently. Before she could protest, before she could even draw in a breath to tell him that she was perfectly capable of walking inside on her own, he was at her side. The disparity in their heights seemed tenfold, but he easily hunkered down and guided her arm around his shoulders so her leg bore no weight. He steered her a few steps, one hand holding hers steady on his shoulder, the other around her waist. Then, stopping, he shook his head.

Angela opened her mouth to assure him that she could make it on her own two feet – or one foot, as the situation seemed – but never got farther than a sharp intake of breath. He swung her up, cradling her in his arms, and began walking steadily towards the building. "Put me down," she grunted, pushing at his chest. "I'm not crippled, I'm just—"

"In pain," he finished. "And you might have damaged your knee. Stop wriggling before you damage it further."

She snapped her lips together, insolently folding her arms over her chest. Realizing that she was mirroring exactly what Vaughn did whenever she got into trouble and was marched off to bed early by her father, she tried to relax. She thought of telling him that she had to weigh too much for him to be carrying, but remembered the weight numbers of his usual workouts listed in his file. He could easily carry two of her. Probably with one arm. Resigned to her fate, she fully ceased her protests.

Until he reached the door.

"I can go the rest of the way," she attempted, painfully aware of the receptionist and security guard's curious looks as she was carried through the reception area. Neville paid her no mind though, pushing the inner door open with one foot and heading in the direction of the rehab room. The usual hubbub of the training area died away and she felt her cheeks start to burn as the groups in each ring slowly turned their heads to watch their progress. "Mr. Neville, really—"

"Ten more steps won't kill you," he promised, turning so he could back through the swinging door. Doing so gave everyone – and it was everyone, she could see the inquisitive looks and hear the whispers – a better view of her in his arms.

She was almost relieved when the door swung shut behind them. She could tape up her knee and go about her business. First, though, she would have to get rid of the persistent Englishman. "Thank you. I can take it from here."

"What happened?"

"Fuck," she groaned, clapping a hand over her face at the sound of Dr. Sampson's voice.

"She took a spill." Neville was answering for her. Did he somehow know she would have stretched the truth? He carefully placed her on one of the tables, then used his t-shirt to mop the sweat from his brow as he explained what had happened. And, damn the man, he laid out every tiny detail.

"Why aren't you wearing your brace?"

"I thought I would be okay," she answered. "You and Amann said I could go without it for longer periods, and…"

Sampson nodded and began to gently prod her knee. When she winced he nodded again, reaching to ease her pants up to her thigh.

Angela looked away, not wanting to see the scars that marred her knee. The thick, jagged lines that would never be the same color as the rest of her skin. Two surgeries had wreaked havoc on her flesh. Gasping when she felt the material of her leggings peel over her kneecap, she clutched her hands together.

"Road rash," Sampson explained gently, lightly patting her leg. "I'll get the wash and we'll see what else is going on."

Looking up in surprise when she felt something cold and damp against her fingers, she blinked at the sight of the water bottle being offered. She took it, grateful for the distraction from her knee, and took a sip. "Does it look bad?"

"Just a little blood. And there's a bruise forming. How does it feel?"

"Burns like hell," she muttered. Taking another sip of water, she glanced to him. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"And your ankle is okay?"

"It's fine."

She smiled wryly at the echo of her earlier statement. "Stiffness? Pain? Swelling?"

"Some stiffness. No pain, no swelling."

Satisfied that he was being honest, she looked over to Dr. Sampson, who was heading back over with supplies in hand. "You can go now, Mr. Neville."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm in good hands. Sampson won't let me budge for another hour, at least." Her gaze dropped, and she quickly leaned her head back when she caught sight of the tiny droplets of blood on her knee.

"What's wrong?" Neville asked, taking the water from her and setting it aside. "Can't stand the sight of blood?"

"I can poke at anyone else's wounds and finger-paint with their blood all day long… I just can't stand the sight of _my_ blood," she explained, knowing it sounded crazy. But it had been a fact for as long as she could remember. While her schoolmates gleefully picked at scabs so the scrapes and scratches would bleed again, she had refused to do so. Because, strangely enough, seeing her own blood made her weak in the knees. Dizzy. During her early years, her parents had no doubt gone through a million Band-Aids to keep her from seeing her blood.

The door swung open forcefully, the usually silent hinges screeching, and Angela sat up, looking past Neville to see a familiar figure striding towards the table.

"What the fuck is going on? I came down for my training with Sara and heard you were carried in – Hiya, Nev – and hurt." Becky Lynch ducked around Neville and perched on the edge of the table. "What happened? Is it your knee? What did you do?"

"I decided, hey, what the hell, I haven't caused any drama around here in a while…" Angela shrugged, smiling at Becky's boisterous entrance. "So I tripped myself on my run."

"Jesus," Becky sighed, leaning to get a look at the knee that Dr. Sampson was washing. "That bruise is as big as my left tit."

Angela looked at the redhead and settled back on the table. Glancing to Neville, she cleared her throat. She didn't want him in the room when Sampson gave her the bad news. His apologies aside, it was obvious that he thought she had been handed her contract. That she hadn't worked hard. "You can go," she told him, as gently as possible. "Becky won't let me budge, either."

"I'll take care of her, Nev," Becky promised. Waving as he left the room, she turned back to Angela as soon as the door swung behind him. "I take it you're his new trainer?"

"We just started today." Angela cast a rueful glance at her knee, hissing as Sampson began to prod it again. "And might have ended today, too…"


End file.
